


Pygmalion

by Lemon Dr Pepper (sh1defier), lemon_dr_pepper



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Dysphoria, Choking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Existential Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Physical Abuse, The choking is non-sexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sh1defier/pseuds/Lemon%20Dr%20Pepper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_dr_pepper/pseuds/lemon_dr_pepper
Summary: Lucidity struck him all at once.  He had been going about this dream fully unaware until now, but suddenly he recognizes it for what it is:  some farcical invention of his mind in its effort to fill the voids in between his lived experiences.





	Pygmalion

He is dreaming.

Lucidity struck him all at once.  He had been going about this dream fully unaware until now, but suddenly he recognizes it for what it is:  some farcical invention of his mind in its effort to fill the voids in between his lived experiences. His existence in this false world means little to him.

So he thought.

He feels as though he’s looking at a mirror, in this dream.  He feels as though he exists on both sides of it, but moreso in the reflection in the glass than the body.  He’s merely looking out of his own eyes as a spectator. His hands are not his own. His face is his, but not.  It’s the face of a stranger so like him, yet alien--suited--correct. He’s a blight within his own body, the only imperfection in an otherwise flawless form.  Something to be excised. He wishes so desperately that he could excise these things in his head that make him--

Lucilius is not granted the small mercy of awakening with a jolt.  He has to claw his way back to consciousness, all the panic and fear he has spent so long trying to stifle digging its nails into him and pulling him back towards the mirror he saw himself and not himself within.  He fights like a man possessed, desperate to gain control of his body again--it is his? Is it? Desperate to regain control of his mind, to exist, to exist, to exist. He gasps for air as if he’s barely reaching the surface after drowning in a vat of tar, the dredge of which still coats his mouth and pitch black lungs.  

“Lucilius!”  

Something touches him.  Instincts don’t require a conscious mind--he flinches away from whatever it is and rounds on it.  The eyes he’s looking through now, those are his own. He can’t see out of them because it’s dark.  It’s the middle of the night, and he’s in his own bed. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t recognize it immediately.  He rarely ever is. The thing that’s touching him is another man, who must’ve put him there without his knowledge, and who is now standing over him at the edge.  His hands have once again gripped his shoulders now that he’s upright.

“Whew…”  The other man sighs in comically exaggerated relief.  “You had me worried there for a moment.” It’s Belial.

Of course it’s Belial.

“You sounded like you were having quite the nightmare.  I’m surprised it took you so long to wake up. You really are such a lieabed…”  There’s humor in Belial’s tone of voice and playfulness sparkling in his eyes. One of Belial’s hands moves from his shoulder to his hand, closing around it.  Lucilius’s hand fits into Belial’s almost perfectly.

Of course it does.

“You’re still shaking…”

“Why are you here?”

Belial huffs through his nose, though he’s wearing an amused little smile.  “Not mincing words tonight, are we? Well, that’s fine. You fell asleep at your work again, ‘Silly-us’.”  Belial laughs at his own joke. “I was barely able to save you before you slipped right out of your chair. I thought you’d sleep better in an actual bed.”

“And you stayed to watch me as I slept?”

“Well, you were already tossing and turning even before I tucked you in,” he explains.  “I thought you might need someone to watch over you in case you woke up like this. But, I have to admit, I did appreciate having an excuse to watch your cute sleeping face.”  His smile has turned devious, yet warm. “I’m so sorry if that was a little naughty of me. I promise I only have the purest intentions.” Lucilius’s robe is missing. He looks down at himself, clad now only in his black undersuit.  “The purest, I swear! You would’ve been sweating up a storm if I’d put you under the covers with that thing on.” He feels untouched, so he doesn’t care, but he is twice as small without its weight. Belial squeezes his hand with affection.  He rubs Lucilius’s neck to soothe him. “Do you want to talk about it, or should I let it be?” Belial asks.

He does not, but the feelings shaken free by the dream are rising up into his throat like bile.  He pulls his hand free of Belial’s and covers his mouth, but words escape him anyway. “I was not my own.”

“Hm?”

“I was looking through the eyes of a better version of myself.  A more complete me.” Belial’s breathing has gone quiet. His chest rises, then falls in a low sigh.

“I see.”

Belial’s penchant for subtlety is lacking, as per usual.  “Not Lucifer,” he clarifies. “Lucifer is my own design. He was made to be perfect, but wearing his body would feel natural to me.  He reflects my capabilities.” Belial’s eyes flash briefly with that little twist of the metaphorical knife. It lends some sense of control, but not enough.  It’s only a thread, when he needs a rope to tether himself.

“It makes sense that you’d feel more comfortable with your own creation,” he continues politely.  “So this was something different?”

He remains silent.  Belial’s hand strokes his cheek, and turns his head towards him so that Lucilius is forced to look into his eyes.  He reaches up and grabs that hand, pulling it away from himself. “This is foolish.”

“You shouldn’t discount your dreams, Cilius.  They have a profound effect on reality from time to time.”  He’s smiling as he says this; Lucilius feels his own lips thinning.

“I was the source of imperfection, in the dream.  I was the flaw. The thing that needed to be removed.  Not only a puppet, but a defective one.” 

Belial hums, tapping his chin.  He gestures at the bed. “Do you mind?”  Lucilius says nothing; Belial takes a seat anyway, his request for permission a mere formality.  His hand moves to Lucilius’s back. “I can see why that’d be a little on the stressful side, but you really shouldn’t worry about it too much.  If you’re a mistake, you may be my favorite one.” The archangel grins, a sliver of white teeth flashing in the dark. “And I tend to like mistakes.  I think of them more like ‘happy accidents’. Don’t you think the faults in things are what give them character?”

Lucilius says nothing.

“No offense to Lucifer of course--or to you--but if you ask me, ‘flawless’ is just another word for ‘boring’.  He’s become so anal retentive since becoming the supreme primarch, and not in the fun way. Always fussing over his own perfection!  You don’t have to be like that.” Again he takes Lucilius’s hand and again it settles into his near-perfectly. It’s as though it was made to fit his.  “Even if you were in Lucifer’s body, it would be an improvement for him, not for you. Same goes for your nightmare self. If you were something that needed to be removed in that dream of yours, it was because that body was holding you back instead of the reverse.”

“You harbor such disdain for the man you once served.”

“I never served Lucifer,” Belial retorts.  “I may have been his adjutant, but I’ve only ever served you, Lucilius.  You and you alone. Even Lucifer himself would tell you as much.” Belial raises Lucilius’s hand to his lips and kisses the back of his knuckles one by one, peeking up at him after each.  Lucilius twists his hand out of his grip, but places it on Belial’s cheek instead.

“Belial, how do you feel about me?”

“Hm?”  Smiling adoringly, Belial nuzzles into the hand touching his face.  “I’d say I care for you quite a bit. Don’t I make it obvious?”

“Do you love me?”

Belial raises an eyebrow, but nods.  “I do. I love you.” This isn’t the first time he’s said it, of course, nor the first time he’s said so while in bed with him.  “I have nothing but love in my heart for you.”

“Why is that?”

“Hm…”  Belial takes a moment to think, then offers him a sly smile.  “Because you keep things interesting.”

“Because I’m imperfect.”

Belial sighs dejectedly now.  “You’re going to take that the wrong way, aren’t you…”

“Don’t be stupid.”  Another sigh. Lucilius untucks himself from the bedsheets, his hand never leaving the angel’s face.  “Flaws and aberrations, such things as those amount to the unique brushstrokes of whatever artist rendered them.  A creation’s flaws reflect the flaws of their creator.”

“Well-said.  Does that mean you see yourself in me?”  Belial can’t keep that smile off his face for too long.  Lucilius moves his hand and closes it over the angel’s mouth.

“You remind me that sometimes the biggest flaws become apparent when everything in a creation turns out exactly as intended.”  Through Lucilius’s palm, Belial laughs and rolls his eyes. He does not laugh when Lucilius slams him backwards into the bed. He bounces, but Lucilius holds him down with his full body weight, supplementing it by putting his knee on Belial’s chest.  Belial’s eyes are alight with surprise, but it’s an eager surprise, not a fearful one. Of course it is. Of course he’s enjoying himself. It’s by design. “I didn’t make you an idiot, Belial. You know the truth.”

“Hmm?” comes the muffled sound of false innocence through his hand.

“You’re a liar, not a fool.  You know as well as I do that you love me because I made you to.  I etched that desire into your core.” His arm trembles from the weight he’s placing on it to hold Belial still.  He lets up momentarily.

“Cilius--”

And clamps that hand down around his throat instead.  “You love me because I deigned that to be a part of your purpose.  Not because of anything I’ve done, or because of who I am. I forced your hand.”  He grips him tighter; Belial’s teeth grit, the smile now gone. “You have no free will--no ability to defy the path I chose for you when you were born.”  He feels the other man’s windpipe contracting under his hand, but still straining to remain open. He adds his second hand, forcing it closed. His arms are trembling again.  “Your feelings are meaningless. You’re hollow. You’re a tool. A toy that I made to amuse myself with. Just looking at you disgusts me.”

Lucilius’s voice is shaking just slightly, and Belial is shaking as well.  There are tears springing into his eyes. His throat flexes under Lucilius’s hands--Lucilius digs his thumbs into it to try and hold it closed, but Belial is able to breathe just enough to rasp, “Y-You must be tired…”  The archangel’s hands close around his wrists--painfully as vices set tightly enough to cut off his circulation. He peels Lucilius’s fingers from his throat, leaving behind speckled blue and purple fingerprints and oozing red lines from raking nails fighting against letting go.  The darkest of the bruises turn to green, to yellow, and then white as his flesh; the red lines disappear, the dark residue of dried blood the only indicator that they were ever there. Lucilius struggles to free his arms, but Belial’s hold is unflinching. He easily presses both wrists into one hand, and even still Lucilius can’t break out of his grip.  Belial’s eyes are no longer gleaming. His smirk is humorless. He speaks smoothly, ungarbled, unstrangled. “I’m very capable of choosing how I treat you.” Lucilius’s fingertips prickle as he begins to lose feeling in them; his elbows ache as they’re bent against his will and forced into his stomach, arms into his lap. Belial looms over him, now, and sighs.  

“Much as I love the foreplay, I don’t think tonight is a good night for fooling around, unfortunately.  You’re clearly not in your right mind. It would be wrong.” Lucilius flinches as the angel’s free arm grabs his shoulder.  He pulls him to his chest. That arm snakes around the back of his neck and holds him there. The other finally releases his stinging wrists and wraps around him as well.  He’s rendered yet still immobile, fully enveloped in a protective embrace. Belial’s chest rises and falls in a gentle rhythm with Lucilius’s fingers buried into the fabric of his jacket, clinging tightly.

“Pathetic,” Lucilius hisses into his chest.  “Utterly pathetic. Get out.”

Belial rests his chin on top of the smaller man’s head and speaks softly, as though Lucilius’s words haven’t reached him at all.  “You really haven’t been sleeping well lately. You should try to get some rest. I’ll stay here with you in case you have another nightmare.”

It’s no comfort.  Lucilius’s eyes are closed, but he refuses to give in to sleep again.  The image of his false self hasn’t left his mind yet; the feeling of wrongness hasn’t left his body, save for where it’s replaced by the pain in his nearly-crushed wrists.  Whatever bruises Belial left on him won’t disappear with such ease as Belial’s own did. They anchor him to himself as unignorable evidence of his existence. “You are so pathetic.”  He’s repeated it thrice now, for three people. One of them may not even exist, and yet Lucilius feels on some level that he cannot explain, that the stranger whose body he’s ill-fittingly dressed in is listening.  

He deserves those words the most.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on some much more pleasant stories, but I've been suffering from Lucilius Feels too much not to get some of them out on paper. He's cruel and awful, but his issues are profoundly human. Even though he does terrible things, it's hard not to empathize with why he went ballistic in the first place. I'm still stunned that Cygames also made me feel sorry for Belial, though, much as I love the guy.  
> \--  
> Part of a collection of stories about the complexity of creator and creation living alongside each other, falling in love, and how far a creation can stray from its intended purpose. They're all stand-alone stories, but are thematically-related.
> 
> See also: "Icarus" (Explicit)


End file.
